Chapter 11
Asher
The family field games are possibly my favorite part of summer camp.
Every day, we organize a game, from capture the flag to water balloon races to the good ole classic egg and spoon race.
Today’s game is a clothing relay race. Each team gets a suitcase filled with oversized clothes and accessories.
Half the team waits on the other side of the field.
When the whistle blows, the first player on each team has to dress in the attire as quickly as possible, race across the field, then undress.
The next player in line dresses and runs across the field.
And so it goes. The first team to have all their players dress and undress is the winner.
I try to participate in the games at least once a week. Today is that day. But once the teams have gathered, I realize we’re down a player.
Hands on my hips, I scan the area, and it doesn’t take long before I spot the perfect teammate.
Jogging up to her, I say, “Hey, Doc, we need you.”
Claire shields her eyes from the sun, frowning. “Did someone get hurt?”
“Nope. We’re down a player and you’re gonna fill in.”
“What?” Her eyes widen. “No. Get Brenner to do it.”
“Can’t. He has too many screws in his knee. Plus, he’s playing referee and emcee today.”
She crosses her arms and takes in our surroundings. “Surely there’s someone else who can do it.”
“It’ll take too long to hunt someone down. Come on. Please?” Maybe it’s lame, but I pout, pushing my lip out like Bea does when she wants something.
And to my surprise, it works.
Shoulders sagging, Claire says, “Fine. I’ll play your stupid game.”
Stepping back, I hold out my hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not with that attitude you won’t, missy. Only winners on my team. So if your head’s not in the game, you better tell me now.”
She rolls her eyes, and… Why the fuck does that make my dick twitch?
“My head’s in the game, I swear.” She presses her lips together like she’s holding back a laugh.
But I’m serious. I step closer again. “I mean it. You really have to wanna play.”
“I do! I wanna play.”
“Okay, okay. Relax. No need to beg.”
She blows a raspberry in my face. “Asshole.”
“Save that angst for the field, Doc.” I lead her to the team, and we huddle up.
“Everyone, this is Dr. Connelly.”
They shout their names back in overlapping chaos.
“What’s the strategy?” an adolescent named Troy asks.
“The faster the better,” I tell him.
Claire chokes. “Hope that’s not your motto in life, Greer.”
The kid’s mom laughs at Claire’s jab and high-fives her.
I shake my head. I will not let my ego be crushed by their folly.
Brenner uses the megaphone to direct the teams to split up. Claire and three others hustle over to the other side of the field, the two of us the last in our respective lines.
When the buzzer goes off, the first players on each team jump into action, and the field gets loud.
I’m cheering right along with the crowd while simultaneously soaking up the pure joy on the faces of the people around me.
Families encouraging other families they’ve never met before today.
Teenagers helping younger kids. Toddlers trying to escape their strollers and crawl onto the field to join in on the fun.
It warms my heart to witness such successful moments like this after I’ve worked so hard to build this place and this type of atmosphere.
Before I know it, I’m shoved to the front of the line and Troy is sprinting toward me in what are basically clown shoes.
He sheds the sports coat—one my father donated last year—and his mom catches it before it hits the ground.
She holds it out so I can slip my arms through with ease.
Troy was fast, I’ll give him that, but when he removes the men’s button-down, it turns inside out.
Rookie mistake. There’s no time to fix it, so I throw it on as is.
Someone lassos a tie around my neck, and as I slip on the shoes, Troy secures the fedora on my head.
And I’m off.
I have no idea where we are in comparison to our opponents until I reach Claire on the other side.
She’s jumping up and down and shouting, “This is it! I’m the last one. Quick! Take off your pants.”
I stumble-trip but right myself swiftly. This is a family-friendly game. I cannot take her words out of context. Except now she’s unbuckling my belt and dragging my pants down my legs.
Well, shit. I did not consider this scenario at all when I asked her to play.
“Put them on. Hurry up,” I shout while tearing the shirt over my head.
The pants are way too big for her around the waist, so she tucks the waistband under the elastic of her athletic shorts. Maybe she figures this is quicker than dealing with the belt buckle. My adrenaline is pumping too wildly to allow me to put much thought into it.
My competitive heart takes off at a gallop as I survey the teams on either side of us. I think we might win this one. It may not be good form as the owner of the camp to win, but I refuse to let my team down. This is not like when I let Bea win at Candyland. (Sometimes.)
Claire raises her arms and I go to slide the shirt over her head, only she yells, “Ouch, wait. It’s stuck in my hair.”
Sure enough, because it’s still inside out, one of the buttons has gotten caught on her bun.
“Hold still,” I urge, but she’s squirming around too much. “Claire. Lemme… Hold still.”
“Greer, just rip my shirt off.”
Oh boy. That was hot.
By some miracle, I ignore the heathen inside me and release the button that’s snagged on her hair, yanking the shirt down and sacrificing a few strands in the process.
She dons the remainder of the clothes and accessories with help from our team, and then she’s taking off.
In my excitement, I race across the field with her, cheering the whole way.
“You’ve got this. Come on. Faster. Faster, Doc. You can do it.”
As Claire crosses the line, Brenner brings the megaphone up and says, “And we have a winner!”
Claire launches herself into my arms, and I spin her around.
My nose is buried in her neck, making it impossible not to inhale her scent.
She smells like vanilla and sweat. Her breasts are pressed against me, and despite the extra layer of clothing between us, the proximity stirs desire to life inside me.
It isn’t until I set her down that we notice that her pants have fallen off. The oversized ones, that is. And—for fuck’s sake—now I’m imagining Claire wearing nothing but a man’s dress shirt. No. Not just any man’s shirt. My shirt.
She’s out of breath when she says, “We did it.”
We hug our team members and make an obnoxious scene out of winning before cheering for the second- and third-place teams. In the end, our team receives certificates to the gift shop as our prize, which Claire and I pass along to the other campers.
After our team has posed for a few pictures, I invite Claire to join me for lunch.
Bea is at the childcare center today, but I promised her I’d take her swimming later this afternoon. First, I could use a meal.
“It’s a nice day,” Claire says once we’ve located a picnic table in the shade and away from the lunch crowd.
“We’re lucky too. Brenner would have made us play in the rain so long as it wasn’t thundering, and I can’t imagine how hard it would be to take off wet clothes.”
She stares at me a beat, then blinks rapidly and ducks, opening her bag of potato chips and dumping them onto her plate.
“Did you go to camp as a kid?” I ask in an attempt to move the conversation to drier land.
“Every summer. My parents sent Cam and me to whatever popular camp was happening that year. Name a type, and we went. Anything from French camp to culinary camp to space camp.”
“Impressive,” I say around a bite of sandwich. “Which was your favorite?”
A tiny sparrow lands on the table, and Claire shoos it away. “I loved musical theater camp,” she says. “Not because I was any good—because I wasn’t—but because it was the only one I attended where I didn’t feel like I was being graded or recruited.”
“Really? From everything you’ve told me, and from knowing your brother, I’m surprised your parents let you go to something like that, then.”
“Me too.” She pops a chip into her mouth. “But I think one of their friends convinced them it would look good on our college applications. You know, to be well-rounded. Competitive, even.”
“Oh, so this was in high school?”
“No! We were still in elementary school.” She laughs sardonically.
I blow out a breath. “Wow, so your parents are—”
“Uptight?” she finishes for me. “Let’s just say they’ve come a long way.
They were loving parents—don’t get me wrong; they were just hung up on some major expectations.
It’s not what I would do if I had kids, but they did what they thought was best for my brother and me, and I can appreciate that now. ”
“Mmm,” I hum, wiping a hand on my napkin. “I get that. We’re always trying to do our best, even if we don’t always get it right.”
We fall into a comfortable silence as we chew our food in tandem. Her tongue darts out to lick away the salt from her lips, and my brain falls straight into the gutter, wondering if she’d do the same with my cum on them.
Oh, no. It’s been way too long since I’ve gotten laid. That’s all this is.
I clear my throat and pick up my sandwich again. “Uh, what’s going on with your chips?”
“What do you mean?”
Nodding at her plate, I say, “It looks like you’re eating only the folded ones. You have a vendetta against the flat ones or something?”
She laughs sheepishly. “No. The folded ones taste better.”
Frowning, I scan them again. “How do they taste better?”
“Okay, so technically they don’t taste better,” she says, her cheeks going pink, “but they feel better.”
“Feel better?”
“Yeah. In my mouth.”
My lungs seize up and I choke on… nothing. I literally choke on the air in response to those words—“in my mouth”—coming from her lips. I’m doing a piss-poor job of keeping my inner-Neanderthal on a leash today. Get it together, Greer.
I inhale deeply and reset, forcing my attention back to her.
“It’s silly,” she says. “It’s a sensory thing.”
“It’s not silly,” I say. “I think it’s cute, actually.”
“Cute?” She scrunches her nose, which I find, well, cute.
“Yeah. It’s kinda like how I have to eat M&M’s in a specific color order.”
“And what’s the order?”
“It’s not necessarily a specific pattern every time, but if I start with red, then yellow, then blue, I have to continue the pattern the same way until they’re all gone.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
She shrugs. “Nothing. Humans are weird sometimes.”
“I’d rather be weird than boring.”
She raises her bottle of water. “I’ll toast to that.”